Page 13 of Thirty Days in Paris

Just walk, she told herself. Paris was small. She would find her way out of the neighbourhood in five minutes. If she ended up in the Marais, the wrong direction, then she’d have a longer walk home, but at least she would know where she was. She put her shoulders back and walked on, dodging the gaggles of oblivious teens, chiding herself for her schoolgirl error in letting her phone die.

A wave of homesickness enveloped her as she trudged through the crowds. She would give anything to be back at Persimmon Road right now, pouring a glass of the Argentinian Malbec their wine merchant neighbour had recommended, grappling with the ingredients of some recipe in last week’s Guardian. They always got the Saturday papers and circled what they were going to watch or download on their Kindles or cook the next weekend. Juliet’s resolution the year before last had been to rustle up something new every Saturday night, and she had done quite well, only occasionally falling back on the old favourites she could make in her sleep, and had become quite cavalier with miso and harissa and pomegranate molasses.

But in the last year Stuart had eschewed their Saturday-night wine indulgence and wanted ‘clean’ food. He favoured a plant-based diet. Juliet was all for vegetables – she loved them – but she knew he didn’t mean a tian of aubergine and courgette soaked in olive oil, rich with garlic and parsley, oozing mozzarella and topped with breadcrumbs. Plant-based in his new world meant joyless. Tofu, kale, chard, quinoa, bean sprouts, alfalfa – everything measured in macronutrients, or was it micronutrients?

As she turned a corner and saw the Rue de Rivoli in front of her, she felt a wave of relief. She was back on familiar ground. She felt her confidence returning, and quickened her pace. And she realised, as she walked, that it was old Stuart she was missing. Old Stuart she was in mourning for. The one with the slightly too-long hair and the squidgy tummy; the one who would top up your glass without asking and blast out Pearl Jam after a few too many. She’d love that Stuart here with her now. They’d have devoured steak tartare and frites in a buzzy brasserie somewhere, stopped for digestifs on the way home, maybe wandered back along the river, her arm hooked in his.

New Stuart would be on Strava, looking at the best runs. She imagined him limbering up in their apartment, pulling on his Saucony trainers, and felt a pang of regret that somehow they had lost the camaraderie that had bonded them from the day they met. They’d been partners in crime rather than passionate lovers. Friends with benefits who had gone on to make a life together because, somehow, it was easy and it worked.

And now they were friends without the benefits …

Just before the street that led to her apartment, she passed a hotel so discreet and chic it made you want to run away with a secret lover on the spot. Set on a corner, the façade was cream, with perfectly symmetrical sash windows and a door flanked by classical pillars. A few yards down the side street was another door, and above it hung an intricate panel depicting a golden shell, surrounded by bunches of grapes and a garland of leaves.

Before she knew it, she was making her way inside and found herself in a tiny bar. A barman in a snow-white shirt mixed Martinis for a couple sitting in the furthest corner, their fingers entwined as they murmured to each other and laughed, their faces lit by candlelight.

Juliet slid onto a velvet stool at the bar. She might be on her own, but it didn’t matter. She was an independent woman on a mission to rediscover herself, and she wanted a cocktail mixed for her in a glass so cold it burnt. The barman gave her a little nod to indicate he would be with her as soon as he could.

She picked up the cocktail menu and absorbed her surroundings. The bar was decorated in black and gold, which could have been harsh, but clever lighting, luxurious fabrics and the softest carpet made it mellow. She wanted to stay there for ever, wrapped in its promise. As she ordered a Sidecar, she felt a flash of triumph. She was here, being looked after, indulging herself. She didn’t need anyone else to make the most of Paris.

She knew instinctively that if she was to make the best of her new life, she had to be self-sufficient. To fall in love with herself. To be happy in your own company was a skill not everyone had. Ordering a drink in a bar and drinking it without feeling self-conscious was a rite of passage. She’d ordered drinks by herself in bars before, but usually somewhere she knew, and usually while waiting for a friend. This time, she was somewhere unfamiliar and there was little to no chance of someone she knew sauntering in. But she was surprised to find it felt OK. It helped, of course, that the barman was charming and served her as if she had been a regular for years.

‘You are on holiday?’ he asked, as he delivered her drink with a flourish.

‘I’m here to work,’ she replied. ‘I’m renting an apartment for thirty days. To write a book.’

‘That’s so cool.’ His eyes lit up. People were always intrigued by writers. ‘What’s your book about?’

‘Une femme d’un certain âge,’ she replied with a twinkle. ‘Who rediscovers herself in Paris.’

She was surprised by her description. Was that what she was working towards?

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘So you’re here for research? Let me know if I can help.’

He was flirting with her. His eyes were teasing. Was he daring her? She smiled, enjoying the frisson, but also the knowledge that she had no intention of picking up on his subtext. He was, after all, trained to make people feel special.

She raised her glass to him with a smile. ‘I will. Thank you.’

‘You must come in here whenever you need to. I will look after you.’ He set a little dish of olives at her elbow. ‘A writer needs a good bar. Like Hemingway, eh?’

The drink was ice-cold but burnt hot inside her, the traces of Cointreau lingering on her lips. She felt her earlier anxiety melt away. She didn’t feel a shred of self-consciousness or any need to explain why she was here alone. She was a woman enjoying her own company, and it felt wonderful. She sipped at her drink and watched as the other customers came and went. Friends greeted each other, cashmere coats sliding onto the backs of the chairs, butter-soft handbags placed on the floor, the air filled with mingled perfumes.

Her drink finished, she set it back on the bar. The barman smiled and said ‘Bonne soirée, madame. À bientôt’ with such warmth, she decided he was right. This was where she would come when she felt wobbly, or lonely, or even just because, for an aperitif or a digestif or a pick-me-up. It would become her special place, just as The Ritz was for Hemingway. She imagined a line in a magazine feature: ‘This was where the author Juliet Miller would come for her habitual Sidecar. She was a familiar figure in the evenings, alone but never aloof, the epitome of a sophisticated woman …’

The fantasy might be ridiculous, but it had buoyed her up. She laughed as she made her way back up to her apartment in the lift, and headed straight for her laptop without hesitation. Biting the bullet was the only way to make her dream come true.

8

The Ingénue

Monday morning was a baptism of fire. I overslept, knocked unconscious by the travel and the food and the wine the day before, and was woken by a ferocious knocking on my door. I leapt out of bed and pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt and rushed into the kitchen to find Corinne prancing about quite unashamed in a black mesh bra and tights, trying to feed Arthur.

‘Desolée, desolée,’ I panted, mortified I’d screwed up on day one. This was her first morning back at work. She was bound to be feeling under pressure. She thrust Arthur into my arms.

‘Merci,’ she said, indicating her scant outfit with a wry grimace. ‘I must get ready.’

The children seemed to have lost their sweetness of the day before. They were tired and scratchy and reluctant to co-operate.

‘Vous n’aimez pas l’ècole?’ I asked them, wondering if they weren’t keen on school, and they both shook their heads.

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